When scary things happen, Mr. Rogers always reminded us to “look for the helpers.” If there is one thing this trip has taught me, it’s that they are indeed everywhere. I’ve had more than my share of helpers on this journey.

My day started off with a bang, when I reserved my 5 AM Uber ride to the wrong bus station. Turns out there are two bus stations in town. One is called The Bus Terminal and the other The Terminal of Buses. Apparently, I picked the wrong one. After the Uber dropped me off at what I realized was the wrong place, I frantically started trying to get another Uber or taxi to get me to the other terminal before my 6 AM departure. Made it in just the nick of time, but with skyrocketing stress levels.

This bus would be taking us across the border from Chile to Bolivia, which was in a remote spot in the Bolivian desert. I’ve done probably at least a hundred border crossings in my lifetime, and I can say this one frazzled me the most. I had already been a bit worried about the Bolivia visa situation. The info on the internet was all over the place, ranging from: U.S. citizens don’t need a visa, to you’ll need to turn over your first born as collateral before we let you in. (Well ok I’m exaggerating just a bit there, but that was the gist…) I was hoping the truth would be somewhere in the middle and I would have what I needed. When our bus pulled up, there was a flurry of activity, with everyone pulling out their cell phones, scanning something, and filling something out on their phones. The bus driver was yelling out instructions, but I didn’t understand any of it. I timidly asked the couple in front of me: “Do you speak English?” and felt a surge of relief when they said yes. Not only did they say yes, but they immediately proceeded to calmly walk me through the process.

But my relief was short-lived. At the immigration window, my helper explained that I wanted to get a visa-on-arrival. In most countries, the visa-on-arrival process is fairly straighforward: fill out a short form and pay a small fee. Not this one. My heart sank when the officer started listing all the documents I would need to provide: Two passport photos. Photocopy of passport. Bank statements showing proof that I was able to afford this trip. A complete itinerary of my travel plans. (That one made me chuckle. Did he not realize he was talking to someone who has been adlibbing her life for the last 4 months?) Proof of my exit from Bolivia. Fill out a paper form, plus an online registration. Pay $160 USD in cash (and the internet had already warned me the bills better be in mint condition, or they would be rejected).

Luckily, I did have extra passport photos and a photocopy of my passport. I offered to log in to my bank accounts to show proof I could afford this trip but he rejected that option, saying he needed paper proof. (Which was just as well, because when I did try to log in on my cell phone, I discovered that neither my international sim card nor my data plan were of any use in this remote desert location). I tried to explain that while I had booked lodging for the next few days, I didn’t have anything beyond that. Mr. officer did not seem happy with me, insisting that providing paper evidence of everything was a requirement. And no, there were no printing services available in this makeshift crossing.

By this time, visions of getting deported back to Chile were dancing in my head. (But first, I imagined, I would be spending the night in some cold shack in the desert, until a return bus could pick me up). I was also feeling guilty about holding up our entire bus full of passengers. But my helper did not give up so easily. I am not quite sure what words were exchanged between him and the officer, but after a lengthy exchange, the next thing I knew a visa was being attached to my passport, and I was allowed to enter the country. Clearly, I was in the presence of an immigration officer whisperer.

Here is the craziest part of this: Instead of the 30 or 90-day tourist visa that I was expecting, he gave me a visa good for 10 years. So I am not sure what that whole dance was about. But I quietly slinked back to the bus, before he could change his mind.

So this post is dedicated to those two kind helpers, Giancarlo and Cecilia from Guatemala (currently living in Netherlands). Thank you for saving my butt; I owe you big time. And I hope to pay it forward someday.